


my true love gave to me

by bwyn



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Christmas Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 01:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13113357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwyn/pseuds/bwyn
Summary: Here’s the scene: two young men, wandering down the shopping district of the vibrant town they’ve called home for the past three years of their undergrad.The goal? To buy the perfect gift for their roommate, their best friend, the love of their young life that they met the first week of orientation—in other words, each other.





	my true love gave to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breadpoetsociety](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breadpoetsociety/gifts).



> ssttrrraaight up bread caught me in a moment of weakness (not like it's a rare occurrence) and here we've got some sp fluff so i'm dedicating it to bread ily bro AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE'S EVE. also ty for the title u cheesy tit.
> 
> also note: this setting is blatantly modelled after victoria BC :3cccc

Here’s the scene: two young men, wandering down the shopping district of the vibrant town they’ve called home for the past three years of their undergrad.

The goal? To buy the perfect gift for their roommate, their best friend, the love of their young life that they met the first week of orientation—in other words, each other. It’s only by the will of whatever asshole deity it is (or are, if they so happen to be plural) that happens to gaze upon the meaningless lives of humans, that they haven’t figured out that Romantic Love—capitalized for emphasis—is part of the equation for both of them.

That, or it’s true what they say: love is blind. Not in the way of physique or obnoxious habits, but rather in the way that one overanalyzes so much to the point that they convince themselves in a fit of cynicism that’s all wishful thinking.

So we return to our story, in which Craig and Tweek, predictably, share mutual feelings and are unaware.

“How many are left on your list?” asks Craig as they pass a violinist in Darth Vader costume.

“Just the Kris Kringle and my parents,” says (/lies) Tweek, who in fact must purchase gifts for the Kris Kringle, his parents, and Craig. Why he decided to buy Craig’s gift _now_ , while _walking with him_ , is a point of discussion.

You see, Tweek wasn’t sure what to get Craig. They lived together, already shared any item that could be considered functional, and three years of birthdays and Christmases and Hey-I-thought-of-you’s have led him to the point of...what now?

So Tweek is waiting for the moment Craig’s eyes linger on something as they’re leaving the store, in which time Tweek will come up with some brilliant excuse to vanish from his sight long enough to buy it, hide it, and return to his side triumphant.

Look, at least he’s got a plan, okay? Don’t judge him for it.

“Cool, same,” says (/lies) Craig, who in fact must purchase gifts for the Kris Kringle, his parents, and Tweek.

His reasoning? You already _know_ it’s the same as Tweek’s. The only difference is that Craig knows what he wants to buy Tweek (spoilers: it’s something shiny), and he wants to see which of them Tweek likes best, but would never be able to convince himself is worth the money. Then, with shiny item in hand, Craig will confess his feelings and either return home with Tweek elated, or return home with Tweek after a detour to the hardware store for burlap, kerosene, and matches.

For the Christmas decorations, of course, since all holiday cheer will have vanished down into the sewers along with whatever shiny thing it is that Craig buys.

Further spoilers: he’s already chickening out.

“Do you want to stop for a drink?” asks Craig in the face of his suffering confidence.

Tweek perks up. “Kelly’s?”

Craig agrees because 1) it’s Tweek’s favourite pub with his favourite Irish coffee and 2) there is no other reason, that’s it—or, well, 2) Craig is willing to go wherever it is that makes Tweek happiest. Luckily today it’s a pub with a decent selection of beer and pub food soaked in just the right amount of grease.

The two young men put their shopping down at the feet of their barstools, nestled in a corner of the pub. There is enough background noise that Craig has to lean forward on his forearms to hear Tweek. This is newly revised reason number three for Craig to come here, and number two for Tweek: it’s a great excuse to speak with their faces scant inches apart.

When Tweek’s Irish coffee is served, he cups his hands around it to warm up his palms and pretend that it’s a similar temperature to what Craig’s hands might feel like wrapped around his. He might just pretend to be cold later on—he failed to bring gloves—just so he can relish in Craig rolling his eyes and rubbing his cold fingers. Is it so wrong to want to be taken care of a little?

Meanwhile, Craig sees the way the server’s eyes flick back over an oblivious Tweek. There’s a slight smile on the server’s face. Craig is torn between baseless jealousy and...pride, maybe? Something along those lines. Whatever. He doesn’t want Tweek to notice the server’s attention because then Tweek will get all blushy about it probably and where does that leave Craig?

The server leaves them with their coffee and beer, Tweek daydreaming and Craig wrestling pesky emotions.

“Do you have any stores in mind?” asks Tweek, as if they haven’t discussed this already.

Craig leans in over his beer. “Nah. If you see something, just walk in and I’ll follow.”

Tweek shifts slightly in his seat, pleased and flustered (the usual combo when it comes to Craig). “Then! You do the same!”

“Last time I did you made the sales rep call me over the intercom,” deadpans Craig.

“I thought you would get lost! A handsome stranger might approach you! That would be _terrible!”_

“Me, an adult, lost in a department store.”

“It’s more likely than you think!” squawks Tweek.

“And why is this stranger _handsome?”_ Craig’s head tips slightly to the left.

Because, dear Craig, Tweek is worried about someone _flirting_ with you, not kidnapping. Although that unlikely scenario is also relatively high on the list of Things That Might Go Wrong While Out Shopping. It is also something that Tweek will never admit to as long as he shall live.

“B-because people are more willing to trust strangers if they’re attractive.” _Nice save_.

“That so.”

Tweek gulps coffee. Craig calmly sips beer.

After warming their blood with alcohol, the pair resume meandering. There are several stores sporting painted totem poles, feathered dreamcatchers, and carved stone jewelry. They pop into one and take a look around, but Tweek doesn’t see Craig’s gaze linger, nor does Craig see Tweek’s.

Granted, they’re both paying more attention to each other than whatever is on the shelves, but it’s nothing either of them really _desire_. Tweek already has a dream catcher dangling by his window, and Craig received more than one little totem pole from his family after returning home his first year. They don’t spend much more time there.

Next, they roam the Irish imports, counting the Guinness paraphernalia and trying to find their names among the family crests. Craig finds the Tucker coat of arms—three seahorses on a blue field. Tweak goes amiss. They leave with several knickknacks adorned in the Tucker crest, for Craig’s parents.

At a consignment store, Craig easily convinces Tweek to try on corduroy pants with suspenders over a polka dot shirt. He expects it to look amusing, but instead he’s struck by a bashfully perplexed Tweek stepping out in fitted pants and no idea how to clip on the suspenders. Craig silently admits defeat and waves away Tweek’s concern about his flushed face. In the end, Tweek buys the cords for himself.

Eventually they turn to the shops without indoor heating. The outside market is a place that Tweek learned to love over the years. At first, it was overwhelming with the vibrancy of a few dozen artisan stalls and their varied wares, not to mention the warring smells of the pastry and sausage booths opposite each other. He figured out eventually when the best time to roam through was— or rather it was Craig that did, and who subsequently brought Tweek along.

Tweek deserves to see all the town has to offer, after all.

Now there’s only a handful of people shopping on a weeknight in early December, the evening chilly and the decorations twinkling bright.

Tweek shivers, does his best to subdue the shivering—or at least pretend it’s some other brand of shakes—but Craig takes notice. He always does.

“This is why you should’ve brought gloves,” says Craig flatly.

Tweek groans. “That’s what _pockets_ are for.”

“Pockets you’re not using,” Craig points out before reaching out to slip his hand around Tweek’s.

The knit of his thin glove is warm from his hand within it. Tweek tries not to think too much about the warmth, lest he begin trembling in earnest. Meanwhile, Craig is freely focusing in on Tweek’s fingers: the bump of knobbly knuckles that somehow look elegant against piano keys, nails painted green to dissuade nail biting, pads that have brushed through Craig’s hair in laughable attempts at braids. Sadly, neither of them seem to be aware of the effect they have on the other.

Before Tweek can question out loud why his friend just grabbed him, Craig tucks Tweek’s hand into his own pocket. He burns—no, they both burn. It’s cold outside and they’ll be explaining away the splotchy flush creeping up Tweek’s neck and cheeks, and the full-bodied red rising to the surface of Craig’s ears and nose, but the fact remains that they’re the dual embodiment of human torches.

Except Tweek notices an important flaw in Craig’s solution. “What about my other hand, Craig? Is that one expendable?”

Craig looks down at his friend’s other hand, fingers wiggling in the chill. _Ah._

“You only need one hand to write,” deadpans Craig, embarrassed.

“I’d like both,” says Tweek. “They balance me out. If I’m lopsided then I might trip into somebody and that somebody might be really smart and they could end up being my future boss and they’ll remember me as that guy whowalkedintothemthatonetime—”

“Let’s sit,” suggests Craig as Tweek’s voice reaches a higher frequency than the ability of humans to hear.

Tweek’s hand gives a brief shudder from within Craig’s pocket. It’s hard not to be humiliated by his own ability to set himself off mid-joke, but it’s even harder to work up a low mood when Craig is leading him to an outdoor firepit. The flames are surrounded on all sides by grating. Despite the cigarette butts fizzling out amongst the ashes, it smells strongly of campfire, like wood and sap and burnt marshmallows.

“Someone’s got the right idea,” says Craig, pointing out a few crispy marshmallows that someone had tried to shove through the grating.

Tweek isn’t thinking about the marshmallows though, when he thoughtlessly says, “Smells like you.”

“The… marshmallows?”

“What?” Tweek blinks rapidly and looks up at Craig. “No! _What?_ I meant the fire!”

“I smell like fire,” says Craig.

“...Like, smoke?”

Craig quit smoking a couple years back. He blinks at the flames, and burning wood, trying to place what exactly Tweek meant without asking too many dumbfounded questions. He’s usually pretty good at it (comes with navigating the territory that is Tweek’s special brand of socialization) but this is proving a little more difficult. Trying to be inconspicuous, Craig tucks his chin down to take a sniff at his clothes.

Tweek watches him do this, belly churning with mirth and his lips clamped firmly over a laugh. Then their gazes meet, and Tweek loses the battle. He nearly buckles over, guffawing at the sky as Craig flushes a deeper red than the cold can bite into his cheeks.

“Sorry for being a little confused,” drawls Craig.

“It’s just—” wheezes Tweek, giving a full-bodied shudder straight to the hand still tucked in Craig’s pocket, “—y-you sniffed—yourself.” He inhales deep and loud, and then coughs when he gets a plume of smoke in the face. “Ack!”

“I don’t get how I can smell like smoke when I don’t smoke,” mumbles Craig as Tweek regains control of his lungs.

Tweek just grins at him, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. He won’t tell Craig that it’s the crisp sweet smell of the body wash he _knows_ Craig uses as shampoo, combined with the wisps of earthy smoke when he keeps his smoker friends company outside, clinging to freshly washed hair. Maybe he _does_ smell a bit like burnt marshmallows.

Craig is going to be wondering about this for _days_.

“Well, you smell like a cappuccino,” retorts Craig.

Tweek rolls his eyes. “So, like coffee.”

“Nuh-uh, not quite,” says Craig with a wag of his finger. Tweek eyes the digit like it’s personally offended him. “It’s not just coffee. It’s steamed milk and cane sugar. It’s a softer flavour. Smell, I mean. A softer smell, far more delicious, I think.”

“So. I smell...delicious?”

Ah, young fools in love: Craig, gaze snapping forward, wondering what the hell is wrong with his filter; Tweek, coming to terms with the fact that Craig just said he smells delicious. Neither of them are paying any attention to the other’s growing fuzzy feelings, warming them up far better than any alcohol or fire pit could. Tweek is certain his palm is sweating.

They eventually agree to resume perusing. One stall is all wooden carvings for display. Another is full of unique charms with handwritten notes detailing what every stone and symbol means. They pause where numerous oddly specific but well-made tree ornaments are dangling. There’s a sperm whale and a beluga, a typewriter, several different cats in suits, dogs in suspenders (the humour of which isn’t lost on either man), and a rather large goldfish, among others. Several wind up in Tweek’s bag for the Kris Kringle with their university friends, and when he turns around, Craig is gone.

For a moment, Tweek thinks he’s gotten lost. The next, he thinks Craig has been kidnapped. By the time Tweek spots his friend only two stalls over, his brain has him convinced that Craig never existed in the first place and he’s just an elaborate dream. Just to be sure, Tweek pinches himself before acknowledging that the cold alone should be convincing enough, then walks over to join Craig.

The other man doesn’t notice him immediately, because he’s too busy staring among the knitted accessories matting the small stall’s every available surface. Tweek follows his gaze and there it is: the single most hideous thing that he’s ever seen. Okay, so maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s not pretty. It’s a hat—probably?—with dangling bits— _Oh_. Tweek can’t help but side-eye Craig, unimpressed. Of course he’d be immediately drawn to the worst chullo in existence, all navy and green and yellow in erratic designs that must’ve been a pain to knit.

Well, Tweek isn’t here to judge him, he’s here to get him a gift he _really_ wants.

“Gonna get it?” asks Tweek casually.

Craig doesn’t flinch, but his gaze slides away from the hat as if it hadn’t been glued there in the first place. “Nah, I’ve already got a hat.”

Tweek eyes the ragged, threadbare thing that’s been Craig’s go-to for as long as he’s known him. It’s a bit of home to Craig, even though sometimes he wishes he could forget the place he grew up and revel in the _now_. He watches as Tweek reaches up with one steady hand—the other not so much—to tug a loose chunk of blue acrylic yarn free.

Craig blinks at the fluff then gives Tweek a flat stare. “Well if you keep doing that, I’m going to be forced to buy a new hat.”

“All part of my evil plan,” beams Tweek.

“Do you have something against it?”

“I’d like it if the th- _things_ growing in it would help us pay rent.”

“It’s not like they’re sentient,” says Craig instead of denying the growth of possible roommates from his old hat.

Tweek’s face twists in disgust. “Ugh, hey, I want to go back to the fire. Can I borrow your hat?”

Craig flips his friend the bird.

Back out on the main stretch, there aren’t that many stores left before the street leads off towards the marina. They duck into a fudge shop to ogle the goods and hope the employee eyeing them will offer samples (she does, but only after Tweek yearns _loudly_ and Craig stares at her pointedly).

Thankfully, there’s a jewelry shop right beside it, and Craig manages to induce Tweek into roaming it. Inside, there’s an owl at the entrance, eyes wide as if gazing into the hearts of all who enter for impure intentions. Craig wonders if his trying to woo Tweek with shiny bobbles counts. Honest intentions, certainly, but pure? Definitely not with the obsession he’s got going on with the way Tweek’s hair curves out at the nape of his neck. _That_ develops, fades, and returns in time with Tweek’s haircuts.

In Tweek’s opinion, the owl is judging the dwindling number of bills in his pocket. He’s suddenly filled with the overwhelming urge to flip it off. Maybe it’s true what his friends have said—that Craig’s really been rubbing off on him.

The two wander the store. Craig mostly just watches Tweek, hoping there’s something that’ll catch his eye. Neither of them are drawn to necklaces, or piercings (besides that one time Craig pierced his eyebrow, took it out the instant it got infected, and let it heal over), but they both have a collection of embroidery thread bracelets they’d made one drunken night. Eventually, however, Tweek’s steps slow.

Tweek likes things that sparkle. They’re pretty, he’ll readily admit, but he isn’t one to wear them. Too much glamour. However, one of the cases is full with engraved silver on small white cushions of different shapes. One pendant is in the shape of a rose, fine detailed thorns and all. Beside it rests several pairs of stud earrings. Beyond them is a collection of rings. Some are paired, but most are independent of any other, and one in particular catches Tweek’s eye. He bends down an inch to peer more closely at it, close enough that his breath fogs the glass. Embarrassed, Tweek looks up to check whether anyone saw.

It’s then that he commits the greatest faux pas of shopping: he makes eye contact with a sales associate.

Tweek looks away quickly, but it’s too late—the associate is walking over. He braces himself for the awkward interaction between store employee (ready for a twelve hour nap after having been forced to smile at people who either outright ignore her or ask to try on everything before walking out with zero (0) purchases) and reluctant customer (ready for a dramatic death by the pearly white teeth of the approaching apex predator—uh, the associate, I mean)

“Would you like to try one on?” she asks with a polite smile, putting undue emphasis on _one_.

Opening his mouth to stammer a denial, Tweek is cut off by the appearance of Craig, like a ghost, at his shoulder. “Yeah, for sure.”

“ _What?”_ squawks Tweek before immediately flushing at the outburst and meeting the judging gaze of the owl at the doorfront.

“Might as well, right?” Craig taps at the glass. “You were looking at one of these?”

Tweek attempts to deny them again, but the associate already has the box open. Instead, he glares at a shamelessly victorious Craig before grudgingly pointing at a loop of silver. The associate brings it out of its white cushion. With a quirk of her eyebrow, she summons Tweek’s unsteady hand to her. Craig watches as the ring is slid onto his friend’s finger. Though he looks, Craig doesn’t catch the exchanging of rings as the associate takes out several more, too busy daydreaming about how he might confess without it coming out as an actual proposal. Well, it _is_ a proposal of sorts—of his feelings, to be sure, just not _eternal union_.

He wouldn’t mind if it led to that, though. Maybe.

“This one is really very nice,” the employee is saying when Craig finally tunes back in. “It’s a thicker band, silver plated, and every engraving is unique to the ring.”

“Oh,” breathes Tweek, and Craig knows this is the one.

He leans over his friend’s shoulder to get a peek at it. Polished until gleaming, the silver band is nearly as wide as his nails. Etched into it appear to be clusters of dots around a small crescent— _stars_ , Craig realizes, by the finely jagged edges. It’s beautiful, but not something Craig would expect Tweek to prefer.

Of course, were he to ask Tweek, it would be an obvious choice. _Because starlight_ , Tweek would say, coupled certainly with a smile as secretive as a full moon—which is to say, not at all. To carry around a piece of the sky on his finger would be much like carrying a piece of Craig, and Tweek is too weak a man to deny himself that yearning.

Except, well, that price tag.

Tweek stares at the digits with disappointment in his plummeting stomach, and Craig eyes it with a steely resolve. Sure, he might be forced to walk forlornly past the Häagen-Dasz, and pick up bulk ingredients instead of the usual nearly-ready-made meals, and thus put in _time_ and _effort_ into feeding himself for a little while, but… it’ll be worth it.

And if Tweek outright rejects him? Then he’ll return the ring and spend the money on gourmet ice cream instead.

“Um,” begins Tweek, pulling the ring off his finger. “I’m sorry, uh…”

“I’ve just remembered we have a reservation,” drawls Craig.

The sales associate’s smile twitches, amusement and exasperation in equal measure. “Oh, then I won’t keep you.”

“Thanks.”

Tweek makes a noise that sounds a lot like “geh” as Craig pulls him from the glass case, past the owl and into the cool air outside.

Neither of them pay much attention to the rest of the stores except to pretend they’ve still got someone to shop for, and while Craig technically does—the Kris Kringle gift isn’t going to buy itself—he’s much too occupied rethinking his budget. Tweek, too, is deep in thought: when do the stalls close? Do they close earlier than the shops? They must, but he didn’t see any store hours signs posted, so what if they’re already done for the evening?

Both of them are walking slower and slower, trying to figure out what to say, how to say it, to avoid suspicion.

It’s when they reach the last pub on the stretch that Tweek finally says, “I, uh, want to grab something. Can you, um, w-wait here while I g-go get it?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

Tweek’s excuse is weak, but Craig is so desperate that he doesn’t think twice about the stammering. The moment Tweek is out of sight, Craig is gone as well. On opposite corners of the block, one man locates a hideous chullo that he knows he’ll grow to love despite its complete and utter disregard for fashion—and the other blasts into a jewelry store without expression, cheeks crimson and bills supposedly smelling of maple syrup in hand.

Craig barely makes it back in time, his breath rattling in his lungs. The small box is hidden away inside the inner pocket of his coat. The corners poke at him, acting as a constant reminder that _hey, it’s me, that shiny, sparkly ring you want to give away!_ Alongside its peppy reminders are murmured warnings of _don’t mess up or he’ll hate you_ and _why would he ever want to wear a ring that_ you _bought him?_

Thankfully, by the time Tweek returns half a minute later, Craig has regained control of his breath. He looks around, hand flinching to the box pressing into his ribs, and tries not to let his expression give anything away.

“Got what you needed?” asks Craig smoothly.

“Y-yes,” wheezes Tweek, unused to sprinting in the cold for a hat he desperately wants to set on fire, but at least less on fire than the ratty thing currently warming(?) Craig’s head. God, how he wants to rip it off and see the messy cowlick of Craig’s hair, run his fingers through it, tug and pull him close—

Tweek exhales his gay thoughts away (not likely a successful endeavor) and glances down quickly to make sure no hints of the hat are visible. Once the two of them are certain of the thoroughness in which they’ve tucked away their gifts, they resume their walk, so consumed by their own nerves that they don’t even think to question how odd the other is acting.

Their stroll takes them away from the shopping district and towards the marina. Sailboats float silently in the still water, dressed to the nines in lights and pop-ups and tacky decor as any housefront might have. The effect is reproduced twofold in the water’s mirror surface. Ahead is the parliament building, a magnificent structure outlined in white and topped in red and green. To Tweek, it looks like a toy house; to Craig, it might be gingerbread with icing lights. The city never holds back when it comes to the holidays—everything is sparkling.

Frankly, Craig believes it’s _the_ perfect time to present Tweek with his gift. Screw waiting until after exams. He’s warm, the mood is good, and the box is weighing heavily in his pocket.

Just as he’s summoning his courage, Craig makes his first mistake: looking at Tweek.

He looks at Tweek, whose eyes are alight with the sparkle of the parliament building’s decorations, whose hair is coiling in messy wisps around ears chilled red. He remembers those eyes blurred by tears, because Craig’s guinea pig died and Tweek couldn’t stand him being sad. He remembers that hair slicked back in the character of a soldier on stage, shoulders steady in front of hundreds and then shaking with adrenaline under Craig’s calming hands, when they’re alone in the folds of a heavy curtain. He recalls grocery trips, running after buses, collecting rolling cans of beer escaping from ripped boxes. Tweek wasn’t the first person he met on campus, or the second, or even the tenth, but he became the most important. They learned the limits of their alcohol tolerance together, the best spaces to study while not really studying, the best coffee for hangovers and the worst for pre-exam jitters. They visited the apartment together, decided to rent it out together, filled it with ironic posters, dollar store decals, and lists of stupid inside jokes.

This man is so very precious to Craig that the moment he considers their friendship being ruined by his yearning, his courage collapses in on itself. He’s not willing to lose Tweek like that.

So Craig makes his second mistake: his fingers clutch tighter around the little box, and he puts it back into his pocket—or he would have, if not for the patch of ice-slicked sidewalk that yanks his feet out from under him. In an inelegant flail of limbs, and the subsequent bonfire of his pride going up in flames, Craig barely manages to stay upright. Tweek is frozen in place, eyes popped wide, hands extended as if to catch Craig heroically.

Then, in the same moment Craig realizes the box is no longer in his grasp, Tweek’s gaze drops down to where it sits on the patch of ice.

Open.

Craig’s higher brain processes take a holiday on the spot; Tweek’s spiral into overtime.

“Oh,” says Tweek as he bends down to pick it up, because Craig isn’t about to.

The gleaming silver reflects a molten image of boats lit up in a hundred different colours, punctuated by dark engraved stars. Then Tweek is snapping the box shut and holding it out to Craig, who grabs it and tucks it away, his limbs moving separate from his brain.

His mouth, too, claims independence, opening to say, “You’ll have to wait till Christmas to wear it.”

“Oh?” Tweek smiles. “You’re giving me a promise ring?”

“It could be.”

Tweek’s smile stutters, as does his heart. Neither of them speak for a moment. A long moment. Several long moments, combined into an Alpha Long Moment. Craig desperately searches for a comeback, his face void of expression in his panic. Meanwhile, Tweek thinks, and thinks, and thinks.

 _Craig?_ A promise ring? It’s more likely than you think.

But _no_ , says Tweek’s brain, because sometimes you betray yourself into thinking you don’t deserve things that are real and good. So he tries to convince himself that it’s a joke and _only a joke_ , while also wondering _what if it isn’t? Then? Then what?_

So it’s in the moment which Craig’s mouth, taking the moment some benevolent god somewhere has given him, opens to say “Because we’re—” that Tweek interrupts with “Friends forever?”

Craig chokes on air, emitting a tiny sound through his nose. “Right. Yeah, that,” he says.

Tweeks just nods, slowly, and then they’re walking again. Disappointment hangs like a cloud over both young men, fools that they are. Not even the sparkle of some thousand tiny bulbs encompassing the sequoia outside the parliament building can bring back the cheer in their conversation, since now the air is dead and flat between them.

This, somehow, is worse than the outcome Craig fears, because it’s happening _now_.

“Actually,” says Craig, with neither fear nor confidence, “I was thinking more like a promise that I’ll eventually have courage to be honest.”

Tweek looks at him, step faltering. “About what?”

“My feelings.”

 _Feelings_. Tweek stops walking. It’s possible his feet might leave the ground, and he might ascend into the night sky never to be seen again. His chest is light with hope, and he clutches a fistful of his jacket like he might ground himself.

“W-what feelings?” he asks as Craig stops and turns to face him.

Time is precious, and Craig gives himself none to lose his nerve. So, like the romantic he is, Craig snaps out, “I fucking love you.”

And because the idea of some misinterpretation of his words is downright embarrassing, he adds, “And I don’t mean just as friends.”

And continues to add, “I mean in a gay way.”

And because the benevolent god sees no reason to stop him, “I love you gayly.”

Tweek stares at him. “Really?”

“...Yeah.”

“Really really?”

“...Yeah.”

Craig looks at Tweek, afraid; Tweek looks back, elated. It takes Craig a moment to realize it’s a smile growing on his best friend’s face, not a grimace. His eyes are watering, glittering, filled with starlight.

“C-can I wear it now?” asks Tweek.

Craig doesn’t have the words. He draws out the box from his pocket, feeling a tremble in his fingers, and it’s that moment in which a stranger on the sidewalk knocks his elbow as they brush past. Both Tweek and Craig watch the box soar out of his hand to land with a _plop_ into the marina.

“You’re shitting me,” deadpans Craig.

Tweek—to his own surprise—simply starts laughing, because even though the ring is bobbing in the water below with no hope of rescue, there’s a much warmer gift standing in front of him. It’s impossible to blame Craig for immediately forgetting about it when his arms are full of a giggling Tweek. He closes his arms tight, breathing in the smell of cappuccino and woodsmoke.

“Thanks, Craig,” says Tweek when he can, voice muffled by Craig’s coat.

“For what?”

Tweek looks up. Their noses brush, both red by cold and blush. Tweek doesn’t even flinch, but instead smiles until his eyes scrunch up, and Craig forgets it’s winter.

“This is the best gift I could’ve ever dreamed of,” murmurs Tweek.

He leans up on his toes until their lips meet, and Craig forgets where he is altogether.

It’ll be weeks later—celebrating Christmas right after exams end—that Craig will open his gift and see a hideous chullo, the very same one that made him think “now that’s a Tweek hat if I ever saw one”. He’ll instantly replace his old ratty hat, tug the strings until the gift is snug around his head, and he’ll lean over to kiss Tweek’s smile. Then there will be Tweek himself, with a small box that smells of seaweed in his lap, containing a silver ring engraved with the night sky.

**Author's Note:**

> but bwon wtf is kris kringle??? everyone buys a gift and then u pull a number out of a hat and choose a rando gift in that order. n u can either pick a new one or steal from someone before u and then they gotta pick a new gift. :>


End file.
